The Language of Grenada is English(-ish)

            People will ask you what language they speak here (the use of the term “they” and “those people” forevermore replacing the more polite, yet also more stuffy, term “Grenadians”).  After explaining your move to the West Indies, you are somehow understood to be an expert in all matters Grenadian and, instead of researching the country themselves, your friends and family nod enthusiastically as you regurgitate your Internet findings, with the air of someone who genuinely knows what they’re talking about: the primary language is English, though some residents still use a patois.  (Don’t forget to raise your eyebrows and draw out the last syllable of patois to really emphasize how charmingly foreign it all is.)  Maybe you really wring out the benefits of your research and add the little bit about a slight “lilting Caribbean accent” on that spoken English.

            When you get to Grenada, you’re going to have a hard time understanding the immigration officer, but you’ll get by.  You’ll turn red and get flustered because you don’t know if you’re answering his questions properly, but can only ask him to repeat himself so many times before your guilt forbids you from asking again and you just smile awkwardly.  He is so used to that awkward smile and the bewilderment, he’s not even fazed, though.  You’ll get through immigration relatively easily.

            Next you’ll come to customs and you’re going to have a harder time understanding the customs officer, but she’s also accustomed to being misunderstood and after repeating herself a handful of times, will just pantomime the rest of the process.  You, like a monkey eagerly learning charades, will remove your laptop, read off the serial number, pretend that you don’t own another electronic device, save that one computer, and pay your duty.

            By the time you get out of the airport, you’re probably feeling pretty good.  Sure, there’s that “lilting Caribbean accent,” but you can navigate through it to isolate the familiar English language that you’re used to.  You maybe start to think that you’ve got more sensitive hearing than others or an emerging ability to understand English, even through the thickest accents.

            You know that sound when Pac-Man dies?  That’s the sound your ego’s going to make the first time you jump on a reggae bus and a local attempts to engage you in conversation.  The immigration officer?  The customs officer?  Even the locals employed by the school?  They all have an uncanny ability of slowing their speech and adopting your accent to make you feel more comfortable and them seem more comprehensible.

            Unfortunately, you are bound to run into someone who doesn’t have experience chatting with foreigners and as soon as you realize you’re locked in a conversation with one of them, you’re going to go full-out Blank Stare on them.  At some point that conversation is going to lead to a question and the very pregnant pause that follows will be filled with little more than your soundless gaping.  If you’re lucky enough, you’ve got a friend standing next to you, with whom you can exchange looks of panic.  If you’re not that lucky, you’re just going to end up answering out of obligation.  And you’re going to answer incorrectly.

            The Caribbean accent renders the local English language virtually unintelligible.  If two Grenadians are within earshot and carrying on a conversation that you are not meant to be a part of, you will not understand more than the syncopated rhythm of their words and the almost lyrical pattern of their sentences.  Beyond this, you will know nothing.

            You may have heard that these people like to use words like de, ting, dis, tirsty, in place of words like the, thing, this, thirsty.  You may be able to reassemble words that are phonetically distinguishable as English-ish, like, hoos-waf is housewife and aim g’wan is I am going.  But once you string a whole mouthful of these words together, you will swear, up and down, that it is no form of English you’ve ever come across.

            The issues with translation (because that’s what all of this comes down to) is the lack of time necessary to dissect everything said until you’re sure you know what’s being asked of you.  Confusion and misunderstanding can lead to uncomfortable situations.  The guy that just screamed, “Welcome to fucking paradise!” may have actually just yelled to a friend, “We’ll come if the party is nice!” or, if his accent was particularly thick and you’re particularly paranoid, perhaps he just called out, “Where’s de kitty?”  Maybe.  You never know.  And that’s the moral of the story.

Buffy